


blue bruises heal slow

by zaries



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Gay Harry, Heartbreak, M/M, Post-Break Up, Sex in later chapters, bi Zayn, post 1d breakup, semi enemies to lovers, semi-canon, solo career era, they have communication issues clearly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 12:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16723422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaries/pseuds/zaries
Summary: More than a year after Zayn left, Harry learns that they can't keep avoiding each other. They've broken each other's hearts time and time again but can't seem to stop longing for one another.Or: Imagine if Harry had released his album a year earlier and he and Zayn were forced to attend the same awards shows for their solo projects... no more avoiding each other you stubborn boys





	blue bruises heal slow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the first fic I've ever written and published, so I would really appreciate any nice comments or kudos at the end if you read through! Hoping to have more chapters posted soon.  
> PS hello to zayn & harry who I'm sure are both secretly reading zarry fic in the tender hours of the night as they long to hold each other

_CHAPTER ONE_

_“we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever” -Haruki Murakami_

 

~~~~~~

 

As always, they don’t think about how they got here, and more than anything else, they don’t talk about it. They don’t say it to each other, but they both know they’re in agreement: we’ll do whatever we may do now, but forget everything from the past, and do not dare speak a word about the future. Not that either of them thinks about the other in their future. Or so they would tell you.

They don’t talk about how this isn’t the first time they’ve done this since their breakup over three years ago. That time that they didn’t speak, save for the drunken messages they’d both left for each other in the middle of the night, pouring out too much of their hearts, begging _please let me back in, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I need you back baby._

But in the mornings, voicemails were erased, and embarrassed, burning hearts remained unanswered. Their nights of dangerously uninhibited confessions never managed to line up, and so continued their span of silence with only the occasional drunken slip-up, until eventually, those faded too. Then there was only silence. And after enough time, silence became anger.

They don’t talk about the resentment they grew for each other, both cradling bruised hearts that they blamed on the violence of the other, the way he once cared for it, then left it for dead. And then how, eventually, time passed, and the more that each of their tongues stumbled over the lies they’d tell themselves — _he never really loved you, I never really loved him anyway_ — they began to believe that they’d moved on.

 

~~~~~~

 

Through the chaos and blur of debuting his solo album, the Brit Awards snuck up on Harry. It wasn’t just his first major awards as a solo artist; it was the first time that Harry and Zayn would see each other since Zayn had left the band.

They had both received nominations for solo male artist. Harry hadn’t wanted to go, had begged his manager to let him stay in. He argued he could watch it on the telly instead and get to lounge in pajamas, eating his favorite Chinese food. Then, depending on the results, he’d watch a rom-com in celebration or consolation and be able to get to bed somewhat early.

Of course, the answer was no; critics overwhelmingly speculated that he would win after his new album took off, certified platinum faster than any other artist his age. His appearance at the awards was necessary in bolstering his solo career. Harry didn’t have the heart to admit that he didn’t want to go because he couldn’t bear seeing Zayn. And not just seeing Zayn for the first time in nearly a year and a half, but to see him with his sexy new dyed hair, in a custom suit sure to bring swoons across the crowd, and worst of all, to see him side by side with his new supermodel girlfriend, in her equally stunning outfit, with her legs out and her hands all over Zayn for the cameras.

The media couldn’t get enough of it, of course, hyping up “Former bandmates Zayn Malik and Harry Styles to make first public reunion at the Brit Awards!” Most sites peppered in Zayn’s comments that he had “never really spoken to Harry while in the band,” a side-comment he’d dropped seemingly without a thought. It had sent Harry reeling for days, alternating between bouts of rage—he’d destroyed most of the glass plates in his kitchen—and what felt like bottomless spells of sobbing into his mattress until he felt that his body could no longer form tears. It made Harry feel miserable, not only to have Zayn lie so blatantly about the love they’d shared, but to see that Zayn seemed to have truly moved on, while Harry still couldn’t tear himself from Zayn.

Like the professional he prides himself on being, though, Harry got himself together and not only agreed to attend the Brits but pretended to be excited about it. His team had offered to find him a date, a model who could rival even Zayn’s girlfriend, but Harry declined. He told them he’d go alone, in statement of his newly solo career.

Truthfully, Harry just didn’t want to put up with that as an additional burden to an already unanticipated evening. Pretending to be straight for the cameras, making small talk with a gorgeous stranger (which Harry normally excelled at, though he didn’t think it would come so naturally while he stared across the room, tracking Zayn’s every movement in jealousy). No, he’d go alone, make his dutiful appearance, then get home as soon as possible to drink away the memories of Zayn already infecting his mind.

So Harry goes solo, dressed head to toe in custom Gucci, shimmering in a red silk suit embellished with embroidered floral designs. He stuns the cameras and guests on the red carpet with his trademark charm and smile. He’s good at faking it for a crowd when he needs to, and tonight he needs it more than ever. He makes sure to smile and wave confidently, but he can’t help himself when he scans the carpet for any sight of Zayn.

To bump into him would be a nightmare, to have to fake some kind of civility or even friendliness in front of the crowd and their invasive, nosy cameras. And to have to act cordial in front of Zayn’s fucking gorgeous girlfriend, who Harry has no particular reason to hate other than the fact that she’s replaced where he had once so happily been. Harry was certain that even if he could swallow his anger and keep his cool in front of Zayn, even quick eye contact or a brisk handshake between the two would be enough to trigger tears, which was absolutely not happening at his first major awards show, and absolutely not in front of Zayn.

He moves through the carpet as quickly as he can without actually appearing rushed. He even stops for a quick interview, until finally he makes it to the entrance of the arena. Harry lets out an audible sigh of relief. He should be okay from here on out. He knows he’s not sat at a table with Zayn for the awards presentation; he already saw the seating plan to make sure of that. As soon as he makes it to his seat, if everything goes according to plan, he won’t have to see Zayn at all tonight. He might even take home his first major award as a solo artist.

Just then, almost in the grasp of safety, Harry hears the collective gasp of the photographers and interviewers lining the red carpet. He doesn’t have to turn to confirm what he already knows, can practically sense it in his gut and his heart, which has started pattering rapidly. It’s like he can sense Zayn somehow, maybe a fucked up sort of sixth sense he’s got that makes him hyperaware of the proximity of his ex-boyfriend who still makes his heart so frustratingly tender.

Part of Harry—perhaps the more rational part of his brain that’s actually trying to look out for him—begs him to continue moving forward, through the doors into the building. Unfortunately, Harry Styles is nothing if not first a romantic, not to mention his tendency towards the chaotic even when it’s not in his best interests.

He turns back, like a modern, popstar version of Lot’s wife, and confirms what he already knows: Zayn has arrived at the red carpet, looking so radiant that perhaps some of the bulbs in the cameras will burst. He moves with confidence but maintains the illusion of mystery that he’s mastered so well over the years. Dressed in all black from his shiny loafers to his mock-neck shirt under a stunning Versace suit, Zayn looks flawless, enchanting in such a deceivingly simple way.

Though they stand at opposite ends of the red carpet, it’s the closest Harry has been to Zayn in over a year. He hears his breathing turn ragged, feels his arms turn numb, yet he can practically feel the blood pumping through his veins. He feels at once too much of everything along with a deep sense of emptiness he could drown in.

And he knows it’s just in his mind, yet another product of his always-overactive imagination, but Harry swears he can hear the dripping of his heart as it bleeds out of his chest and blends into the red of the carpet.

Then Harry sees the woman standing confidently beside Zayn. She’s stunning, of course. Harry wouldn’t expect anything less from Zayn. She’s even taller than Zayn in her impressively high heels, but it just makes the both of them look that much more powerful, standing proud together before the loud crowd.

Harry’s heard about her before, seen pictures, but seeing her in person is like the final arrow that manages to crack through the barricades Harry had so ambitiously built over his heart to prepare for this very moment.

They look like the perfect celebrity couple together on the red carpet. It’s something Harry could never have given Zayn, realistically. In their nights together during the band, especially those nights tinged with alcohol and weed, tangled together in hotel sheets, Harry had let himself babble to Zayn about how he wishes they could go public as a couple.

“I could be your arm candy,” he’d say, fluttering his eyelashes. “I would be prettier than all the girls you’ve brought before.”

“You already go with me to all my shows and premiers, babe,” Zayn had said in response. “It’s practically like you’re my date each time, if you think about it.”

“It doesn’t feel like it though,” Harry had whined, and Zayn would run a hand through Harry’s hair to sooth him. They’d never speak about it in the morning. They’d never speak about a lot of things.

Now, it becomes too much for Harry to watch Zayn and his new, perfect lover who gives him all the things that Harry never could.

He takes a deep breath as he finally allows himself to fall into the empty comfort behind the arena doors.

 

~~~~~~

 

It isn’t as miserable as he’d been expecting, but partway through the show Harry decides to excuse himself from the table to clear his head.

The best artist award, as one of the major accolades of the event, isn’t announced until the end of the show. The unspoken reason for that is to keep viewers tuned in for the celebrities who drink more cocktails and forget about the cameras around them. In this industry, it’s always about creating more gossip for the media to exaggerate and speculate upon, to morph into their own rumors, and Harry can’t stand it sometimes. 

He’s more than grateful, of course, to be able to do what he’s always dreamt of doing, creating and performing his own music for people to listen to under the stars. Music for lovers and music for solitary, lonely people aching for the love they’ve heard about in songs. Harry knows both positions quite intimately, though he’s more reluctant to admit that both have, at some point, revolved around Zayn.

He’d be lying, too, if he said he didn’t like the attention, like the eyes on him and the constant articles about him. Knowing that millions of people around the world know him, think about him. It’s just that living like that doesn’t stay glamorous forever. 

On starry nights of his deepest reminiscence, Harry thinks he liked things more back when he was younger and in the band. When he and Zayn were messing around and hiding it from everyone for awhile, even the boys and definitely from management. It was fun to look out at what the world was saying about him, the cute and flirty teen heartthrob out of the UK, while knowing that the world would never know his whole truth. The thing he had with Zayn felt so intimately like their own secret world against the otherwise nonstop eyes on them. 

Harry’s changed a lot since then. He feels so much more _himself_ , truly free to dress how he wants, write what he wants, sing and dance around stage like a madman if he wants. And he loves his solo career so far, he really does, for all those reasons and more. It’s just that, as his career and fame has continued to grow, he’s begun to resent the overbearing celebrity culture to which he’s forever shackled.

Part of it is that the novelty has worn off. But part of it, too—as much as he hates to admit—is because he’s going through this alone now. He has tons of friends in the industry, yeah. But at the bottom of it all, Harry misses that secret world that he and Zayn shared as they were both introduced to the whirlwind of fame.

He loves writing and performing the way he wants to, in all of his flamboyant, neo-retro, floral print glory. It’s exiting his own beloved, pink-tinged realm into the shock of expected celebrity life that he hates. Going to events like this, under the collective scrutiny of the masses and their itch to pry into and distort Harry and his life for their own entertainment and profit.

When Zayn left, left not just the band but left Harry a sobbing incoherent mess of heartbreak, at least Harry had the other boys to help him navigate this fucked-up celebrity world. It sucked without Zayn, it it was different, but it was okay. Now, at his highest point of fame, is the first time that Harry’s really ever had to deal with this all alone. 

Maybe because of all of that, Harry would’ve had just a couple more drinks than he should during his first official—and live on television—solo career awards show. That would have been understandable. 

But because it’s not _just_ that, because Zayn is genuinely, painfully in the same room as Harry now, looking absolutely etherial and confident next to his perfect fucking girlfriend (who keeps leaning over to rub Zayn’s neck and shoulders), Harry drinks even more than that. He hardly even noticed he was doing it, distracted by the giggling celebs seated at his table and presenting awards onstage. 

If Harry looks up several rows of tables, he can see Zayn, facing away from him, thankfully. It’s not even that Zayn is in Harry’s eyeshot, but he’s fucking magnetic as always, and Harry couldn’t help but crane his neck to sneak glimpses at Zayn over and over. Unfortunately, that means he also gets an eyeful of Zayn’s (way too fucking touchy, Harry had decided) girlfriend.

Figuring there should be at least an hour until his category, Harry excuses himself and begins weaving his way through the rows of tables. Exiting the main room feels like an absolute breath of fresh air. The lobby isn’t totally empty, but it makes Harry realize just how suffocated he had actually felt inside. 

He turns to the left to head upstairs, wandering towards one of the nice private restrooms he and the boys had discovered once during their share of Brits. They’d indulged themselves on the fancy wine the awards gave nominees and guests, and they ran around the arena, dodging their security team chasing after them. 

They were so bratty back then, something Harry misses now and again. The carefree energy between them all, knowing their lives and career were ahead of them. Harry’s blossoming crush on a friend stronger than any other crush he’d had before, propelled by that adrenaline in their interactions with each other. 

It had felt like a dream. Thinking back, it still feels like a dream, with Harry aware that it happened but terrified of the details slipping into oblivion. 

Harry enters the restroom, which is empty as expected. It’s small, only one urinal and one stall, but with an overall vintage movie-star aesthetic in its black & white tiled floor and marble sinks with ornate faucets. It makes Harry feel glamorous, strangely enough, despite now being arguably one of the biggest rock stars on the planet. Something about this place, a hidden bathroom on the top floor of the arena, gives Harry a melancholy sense of nostalgia. Like all those teenage tinted hopes and excitement stayed contained in this room. Memories of a dream crawling back after Harry had thought he’d lost them.

His mind wanders as he stands at the urinal, daydreaming through the slight fuzz of alcohol swimming through his thoughts. Going up to this eccentric little room was a good choice, he decides, as he moves to the sink to wash his hands. He needed a step away from the chaos and performativity of the event. Here, alone, he feels like he’s finally returning to himself, like he’d been a ghost floating outside of his body and has finally found his way back in.

Harry splashes his face a couple times, then stares at his reflection in the mirror. He feels the euphoric buzz of alcohol running through his veins, but thankfully it’s beginning to dull somewhat. 

“Enough moping,” Harry mockingly scolds his reflection. Tonight is to be a joyous evening, regardless of the vapid celebrity culture permeating the air. All he has to do is go back downstairs, ignore his disgustingly gorgeous former lover across the room, and wait patiently to claim his first big solo award.

“C’mon Harry!” he tells his reflection encouragingly, “Up and at ‘em, let’s go get it!”

That’s when he hears the door to the restroom creak open quietly. Harry startles at the interruption, smoothing down his jacket before turning to exit and give this new occupant their privacy. 

Harry turns. The door clicks closed at the same time he feels his chest tighten nearly violently. 

Zayn blinks back at him, looking fully celestial up close, more stunning than Harry could ever hope to wrap his mind around. In fact, he feels as if perhaps his brain _is_ short-circuiting; he stands frozen, gaping at Zayn, trying to think of something to say or at least how to _move_ and get the fuck out of there. Zayn says nothing either, just looks back at Harry while chewing apprehensively at his lip, a nervous habit of his that shoots a sting through Harry’s heart to see again.

Harry rubs his eyes in disbelief, convinced he must be dreaming again. When he opens his eyes, Zayn is standing much closer to him. Harry grips the counter with one hand, pleading with himself to keep it together. His eyes slowly rise to meet Zayn’s, deep and a beautiful, warm brown. Harry realizes that on some level, he always thought that any reunion between the two of them would be nasty and angry, both of them unleashing months of raw, repressed pain on each other.

Instead, Zayn is entirely calm, looking back into Harry’s eyes with a soft gaze. He moves his hand down to gently cover Harry’s with his own. Harry’s eyes flutter closed at the sensation, at Zayn’s thumb rubbing slow circles into Harry’s hand. Still, that undying bit of resentment arises in him, and Harry feels pathetic for craving this so much, their simple touch of skin on skin. He could have practically anyone in the world he wanted, and instead, he aches for Zayn and doesn’t know how to stop. 

“Harry,” Zayn finally says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s head rushes with everything he could possible say in response, in variations of nearly every emotion, until he decides to stop thinking entirely.

  
“Zayn,” he answers.

 

~~~~~~

 

They don’t talk about it, for more reasons than they can even articulate. Maybe it’s because neither of them would have an answer to how this even started—who made the first move, and more importantly why. It’s surely due to the fact that both men have too much to say: questions and accusations and confessions that swim in a chaos of their heartbreak, guilt, and regrets.

Had they chosen to say anything at all, what would be the use? Both were to blame in the collapse of their relationship, yet neither wanted to admit his own contribution. So is the nature of violent heartbreak.

Mostly—and both Zayn and Harry admit this silently to themselves before pushing that thought away—they don’t speak because they don’t want to focus on anything else right now than each other. Once they open their eyes, detach from each other, everything is too painfully complicated. They’re former lovers who have grown to something resembling enemies over the past year. Yet there remains a flicker within each of them that they were unable to ever distinguish, a fire that blazes towards the other, aching to be consumed. And if making out against the wall in a hidden bathroom stokes their dying fires, then who are they to deny themselves, really?

Harry vaguely considers all this for a flash of a moment, before melting back into Zayn’s touch. Everything about it is utterly entrancing, how it feels familiar and so new at the same time. Zayn’s lips feel the same as Harry remembers, always so soft but insistent as they connect with Harry’s lips and skin. Harry can’t fathom how many times he’s fantasized about those lips over the past year, longing for them while hating himself for still feeling their ghost touch on his skin.

Now that it’s finally real again and it’s so good, Harry lets himself fall into it. He doesn’t want to think about how he might regret this later as he tries to restitch the tangled, unraveled mess of his heart. He lets himself enjoy it because, with Zayn pressed against him, their lips together, Harry can’t think that this is anything but right.

Although it feels familiar—not like kissing a stranger, by any means—Harry can tell that both of them have changed. Physically, Zayn has shed any of his ties to teenagedom that he had during his time in the band. He’s a fully grown man, and his movements portray a newfound sense of confidence, like Zayn feels more present in and connected to his body than he ever has before.

His cologne is new, Harry notes as he tilts his head back against the wall and Zayn kisses up his neck and throat. Harry breathes in his new scent, feeling weak in the knees. Honestly, if he hadn’t been backed up against the wall and supported by Zayn’s weight, Zayn’s strong hands running up and down his sides, Harry might have stumbled over. 

Everything about kissing Zayn feels electrifying. It wasn’t until their lips met that Harry could admit to himself, genuinely, how much he’d missed this. It was always a pride thing, even in his own mind, even as he felt his fingers tingle with desire to touch, to refuse to admit how strongly he missed Zayn. It would seem pathetic of him, he convinced himself, he’d never truly move on if he dwelt on it. Now, Harry falls headfirst without a care.

“I missed you,” he breathes into Zayn’s skin, not saying it, but thinking it with every press of his lips. “Oh how I missed you…”

He doesn’t say anything aloud because he wants this to last forever. 

Zayn presses Harry into the wall as he kisses him deeper, sliding one of his hands gently up Harry’s side until it reaches and cups his cheek. His other hand grips Harry’s hip tightly, so tight that it might’ve hurt, if Harry wasn’t so grateful to at least have that touch there. Harry likes the tight grip of Zayn’s strong hand on him, ensuring that he knows this is real. Zayn’s other hand is so soft on Harry’s face, holding it nearly reverently, fingers gliding so softly over his cheek, each light touch a spark that lingers on his skin.

How Zayn’s hands, his touch, sum up their relationship… gentle and loving when they’re good, but how there’s always some degree of pain, too. _We were supposed to be this always_ , Harry dares to let himself think. But now, after everything, he thinks that they can’t exist together without the pain, even if they can manage to suppress it to a dull throb that they can loosely patch over and pretend to ignore. 

Meanwhile, Harry can’t keep his hands in one place. They roam over Zayn’s chest, his back, his shoulders. Finally, Harry decides fuck it, they’re clearly doing this anyway, and he drags his hands down Zayn’s back to grip his ass. Zayn makes a quiet hum in response, and Harry can feel Z’s lips quirk up slightly into a smirk. 

Apparently that’s all the permission Zayn needs to loosen up, moving his hands all over Harry’s body. The two of them press their bodies as close as they can, arms wrapped around one another, lips and tongues moving together. Their legs are practically intertwined at this point, thighs weaving together. Harry starts rocking his hips forward against Zayn’s tentatively. Zayn doesn’t react at first, always so good at hiding his emotions when he wants to. Harry keeps moving, lightly, and after a moment, Zayn presses back in response. 

They grind together in their expensive suits, Harry’s head beginning to spin, so he leans it back against the wall. Zayn’s head falls to rest on Harry’s shoulder. Both of them breathe heavily, rocking together, holding each other tightly. They’re both half hard now, and Harry doesn’t know how far they’re going to go tonight. He doesn’t even know how far he’d let himself go, but with Zayn so incredibly close to him right now, grinding even closer and deeper in such an elegant way that Harry swears only Zayn could ever pull off, Harry feels like he’d let Zayn continue doing anything he wanted to do to him forever.

It’s obviously not the most glamorous situation, but anything from their past and their current surroundings melt away. It’s just the two of them, their entangled bodies, their warm puffs of breath against each other.

Until Harry ruins it all by talking.

“Zayn,” he murmurs, hands stroking through Zayn’s hair. Harry doesn’t really comprehend that he’s even spoken aloud until Zayn hums a short noise in response into Harry’s neck. 

“Zayn,” Harry repeats, tugging gently at Zayn’s hair so he’ll look at him.

“Yeah babe?” Zayn mutters, pulling away from Harry’s skin just enough to meet his gaze, still dizzyingly close. Harry’s breath catches at the use of “babe,” his heart rushing again. He lets out a shaky breath, grasping Zayn’s shoulders like he’s struggling to balance.

Everything feels too overwhelming all of a sudden. There’s something so confusing between the two of them right now, how they just seemed to snap back into a time before everything went wrong. A time when Zayn regularly called Harry “babe” and it meant something to both of them. A time when there wasn’t a deafening silence between them that suffocated them into resentment. A time when they loved each other and didn’t question it because it was what they both knew and trusted more than anything else.

Realistically, they’re lightyears away from that point now, so how is it that Zayn can catapult Harry back into this mindset by merely appearing in front of him? It’s too much, and despite having Zayn literally in his arms, Harry is filled with a familiar panic that he’s lost Zayn completely. 

Zayn must be able to sense that something’s on Harry’s mind, or can read the expression on his face that Harry tries so hard to cover. Harry hates how his face reveals so much about him even when he tries to contain it. It’s like his body decides on an emotion before his consciousness even gets a chance to become aware of it, and suddenly his face shows his intimate reactions, betraying Harry’s desire for privacy.

Harry envies Zayn’s knack for concealing his emotions. He’s essentially unreadable to those who don’t know him closely, those who haven’t had the opportunity to learn Zayn’s subtle ways of expressing his emotions through small quirks or through his eyes, which Harry learned to decipher so well. Harry wonders if, after all this time, he’d be able to interpret them still. His face falls slightly at the thought of their deep, former connection that they’d worked so long to build dissipating over the last year.

Zayn’s eyebrows pinch together in concern. “’S the matter?” he mumbles, searching Harry’s face with his eyes. 

Harry almost laughs aloud involuntarily. “What’s the matter?” he repeats, incredulously. He shakes his head. “Zayn… what the fuck are we doing?”

Zayn looks a bit hurt by his words, and Harry suddenly feels guilty for even asking. He should’ve kept his mouth shut and they could’ve still been kissing now. Then he feels a pinch of anger for feeling guilty. How dare Zayn plummet back into his life so harshly and then expect everything to be fine and normal, like they didn’t both hurt each other over and over. Like they haven’t ignored each other for months while privately fantasizing about hurting the other again as some sort of fucked up coping mechanism or revenge for the pain they’ve both been individually suffering.

“What do you mean?” Zayn stammers. “I mean, we’re… I dunno, we’re doing _this_.” It doesn’t answer the question whatsoever, though Harry essentially meant it rhetorically anyways. The two men look at each other for a moment, dejectedly, the blinding passion from mere moments earlier fizzling away.

Always a dying, gasping spark between them that they’ve never put out. They’re always too much and then not enough, either a withering spark begging to be fed or an inferno that ends up burning far too painfully. Why is it so seemingly impossible for them to find a midpoint and maintain a consistent, happy warmth? Instead, they’re endlessly igniting and stifling one another.

“Harry—“ Zayn tries again, tentatively.

“No, Zayn,” Harry interrupts, surprising himself. “We shouldn’t be doing this. We can’t be.”

Harry feels nearly betrayed by his own words. Part of him desperately wants to say fuck it and pull Zayn back in. To lock all doubts and annoying warnings from some more rational part of his brain away and just live in this moment. Preferably with Zayn’s mouth and hands all over him. This part of Harry wants to let go, to fall into Zayn, to not think or care about where they go tonight, if they end up fucking in a public restroom of all places, so long as it doesn’t stop now. Harry wants so badly to hold on to this part of him, wants to fall in deep.

Unfortunately, another part of Harry—who either wants to protect him or simply break his heart more rapidly than the other—urges Harry to step back.

“How can you just pounce in here after more than a _year_ we’ve spent completely shut off from one another, and just expect for everything to be normal?” he hisses at Zayn. “I don’t even know what the fuck normal is anymore, not for us, but it surely isn’t this.”

Zayn’s jaw clenches. “You’re one to talk,” he hisses. “As if you weren’t just trying to shove your tongue down my throat a minute ago. You always have to blame someone else for your problems, huh Harry? I guess you haven’t changed at all.” 

His words are like venom spitting on Harry. Despite not speaking for a year, Zayn clearly remembers not only where to stab the knife but how to twist it deeper as well.

“Really, how can you accuse _me_ right now of anything when you were the one who waltzed in here looking so horrifyingly fucking beautiful when I was trying to mind my own business! And trying to move on from you!” 

Harry instantly wishes he could swallow back his words. Typical, in a moment where he could benefit from remaining cool, he still let Zayn know how he hadn’t moved on from him yet. Curse Harry’s inability to bite his tongue and keep any secret of his own safe. His hands ball into fists in utter frustration at himself, at Zayn, at their whole fucked up relationship that seems to enjoy taunting them though endless ups and downs. 

Harry realizes, feeling stupid, that he and Zayn had never let go of each other and have been yelling at each other while still in a loose embrace. He pushes Zayn away, not with much force, but Zayn stumbles back slightly in surprise.

“You’re so full of shit, Harry,” Zayn spits. “You just have to find the worst in everything and in everyone, yeah? You’re really reminding me now why we fell apart. I was a fucking idiot for forgetting why we didn’t work. So yeah, just forget it then.” 

He turns to face away from Harry. His shoulders shake slightly, from deep breathing following that rant or from an attempt to suppress a further explosion of emotions, Harry can’t be sure. Harry hates that instinctually, he wants to approach Zayn, rub his quivering shoulders, whisper to him that he’s sorry and that they can make this work. But he squashes that thought nearly as quickly as it emerges. Enough with the fantasies.

To Harry’s surprise, he feels tears arising, and he squeezes his fists tightly, fingernails digging into flesh. He breathes shakily, feeling so much that he doesn’t even know how to react now. Then he sees Zayn’s shoulders stop shaking as he begins walking towards the door. It’s probably the right move at this point, to separate now and end this hurricane before it creates any more destruction.

But because Harry wants too much and because maybe he likes some destruction after all, maybe he thrives in it, he doesn’t want to watch Zayn leave again.

“You _left_ me,” he chokes out.

Zayn tenses, pauses, but doesn’t turn. Harry tries again. “You left me, Zayn.”

His voice cracks slightly as he says Zayn’s name, tears filling his eyes. Harry blinks harshly, willing the tears not to spill.

“Zayn, why did you have to leave me?” he whispers, not caring at this point how pathetic he may look. It’s what he’s wanted to ask Zayn from the very moment they collapsed.

Zayn turns back towards Harry but keeps his eyes glued to the floor. “I didn’t…”

He shakes his head vigorously and releases a shaky breath. “It isn’t that _simple_ , Harry, I had to leave. It was killing me to stay in the band. I wasn’t eating or sleeping, I was having panic attacks all the fucking time, I was so depressed, Haz, I had to go.” He still refuses to look at Harry, instead squeezing his eyes shut as he talks to the floor. 

“Zayn,” Harry manages, “I was trying to help you. I would have done anything for you. All I wanted was for you to get better.”

“Then why is it so hard for you to admit that I needed to leave?” Zayn snaps.

“Because it’s not just that you left the band, it’s that you left _me_!” Zayn finally lifts his head to look at Harry, though he’s pulled his face into an unreadable neutrality. “You could’ve left the band, Zayn, I knew you were unhappy, but you left without even telling me. I had to find out from fucking management, and after that you wouldn’t even talk to me! You can’t imagine how much that hurt me.”

“You don’t know what I was going through, Harry,” Zayn says with a bite to his words.

“I loved you. I would’ve gone with you,” Harry says weakly.He can feel tears sliding down his face now. He doesn’t think he can muster the energy to hold them back anymore or even to care if Zayn sees him like this.

“No, you wouldn’t’ve.” Zayn shakes his head. He suddenly looks tired to Harry, more than anything else. Defeated, maybe, sad instead of angry. “We were having our own issues, Harry, or did you so conveniently forget? So that you could make me out to be the bad guy yet again?”

“Don’t do this, Zayn,” Harry begs, though he hardly knows to what he’s referring. Don’t put this all on me, maybe, don’t drudge up these awful memories. Don’t shut me out again. Don’t leave me.

“You don’t understand. You didn’t understand then and you clearly don’t understand now.”

“You never gave me the chance to understand! You push people away, Zayn, the people who love you the most. I knew that you were struggling, and I would’ve done anything to help you. All I wanted was for you to at least talk to me, to let me in. Instead you closed off completely. And even then I knew it was because you were hurting so badly, but you still pushed me away. You left me long before you even left the band. And that’s what hurts the most.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, looking at each other. The emotions between them are like thunderstorms that pass through quickly, darkening the sky to a soulless black and shaking the globe beneath it before passing on as if nothing had happened.

First, tonight was absolute, uninhibited passion and longing propelled by thoughtlessness and a year of repression. Then it transformed into anger and cynicism. Now both of those intense spells have seemed to pass along, and they just feel tired and frustrated. Neither of them say enough for the other to understand them. There’s a massive chasm between them that they don’t know how to bridge. Harry feels miserable and hopeless. He’s so tired of feeling distant from the person he once knew better than anyone else in the world. 

“I’m gonna go,” Zayn finally says. “I shouldn’t have come up here anyway.”

Harry says nothing in response, just rolls his eyes and looks away. He tries to act nonchalant, like Zayn leaving means nothing to him. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what he can say to make Zayn stay, and he doesn’t know what he’d do if Zayn actually did decide to stay. Harry attempts to ignore Zayn and just let him go, but his eyes flick back over to Zayn after a moment.

Despite his declaration of departure, Zayn’s still standing right there, chewing on his lip again. He’s good at hiding his emotions, but Harry can see something in his eyes, and he wonders if Zayn is letting him in just slightly, purposefully, instead of shutting him out completely. With a dejected look in his eyes, the way his eyebrows crease together, his lips twitching downward into a frown, he looks so sad behind his usual impassive guise.

Harry’s heart clenches. Zayn looks like he’s waiting for Harry to say something. He bites his lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. Harry thinks that for the first time in ages, Zayn looks vulnerable, perhaps even insecure.

But Harry doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how the two of them communicate now. So he decides to finally sever the rest of their night before they bleed out.

“Then go,” he croaks out, reluctantly.

Zayn hesitates, like he wants Harry to say something else. Harry dares to let himself think that maybe Zayn wants him too, wants to embrace Harry just as Harry wants to embrace Zayn now, to break down and apologize for everything, to finally open themselves up to forgiveness. But that’s just not how they work.

“Isn’t your girlfriend waiting for you?” Harry adds, flinching internally at how harsh and accusatory his words come out. Zayn grimaces, too, both of them understanding the implication of what Harry’s said without stating it explicitly: _you’re a cheater_.

And as their eyes meet again, Harry’s wide in shock at his own tone and Zayn’s hardening with anger, they understand even further what they’re both thinking in guilt: you’re a cheater _again._ And for Harry it’s _you’ve been the reason he cheats yet again._

If Harry thought Zayn knew how to twist the knife and reopen sore wounds, that was nothing compared to what apparently he has managed to do.

“Fuck you, Harry,” Zayn spits, jaw trembling.

Harry sees a brief wave of emotion flicker through Zayn’s eyes before being replaced by a stillness so strong he looks empty.

Harry’s heart plummets at the sight. At their worst days, before Zayn left, before the end of _Zayn and Harry_ , Harry became more familiar with this devastatingly empty gaze than he felt with Zayn himself.

Harry knows there’s no getting through to Zayn when he gets like this; he’s retreated deep into himself, perhaps as a form of self defense, or of his own unshakable stubbornness.

“I’m fucking sick of you always playing the victim, Harry,” Zayn says, his voice so still and devoid of emotion it nearly frightens Harry. He has no hope of reaching Zayn when he gets like this. Though ashamed realization flows through him as Harry realizes he’s probably just as closed off to Zayn, too.

They’re always reflections of the other’s fire, as much as they try to insist to themselves that they’ve burnt any remnants of the other away.

“Don’t pretend you’re not just as fucked up as me. Fuck, I think you’re more. But I’m always the bad guy, huh? To you and to everyone. Since I was a kid, I’m always the bad guy, cos I’m the the brown kid, the guy who left the band and ruined it all. I mean, I know to expect this from the world by now, but I hate that you see me that way, too.”

“Zayn—” Harry tries.

“And you’re always fucking perfect you know, to everyone, no matter what you do! Harry Styles is an angel. It’s not fair, of course, but what bothers me the most is I think it’s exactly how you see yourself now.”

“Zayn, I… I don’t want to hurt you. I never did,” Harry says.

“And I never meant to hurt you either,” Zayn responds. “But clearly what we wanted hasn’t worked out for us.”

There’s a long silence. It’s so quiet Harry can hear both of them breathing shakily, trying to keep themselves from falling apart. Their breath, like lovers, tangles together until Harry can’t tell them apart.

Finally, someones says, “I don’t want to see you again.” 

Harry hopes it’s not him, even as he feels the words crumble off his tongue and scatter across the floor. 

He squeezes his eyes closed tightly, as if willing away a poltergeist, and when he finally opens his eyes to see nothing but the empty restroom before him, it’s as if Zayn really had been a ghost all along.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> oh so sad :-(   
> why won't they just talk out their problems :-(   
> thank u for reading, stream fingers on spotify!


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